


pigments

by eccentrick



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Major Character Injury, Written before S7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-13 10:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16015700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eccentrick/pseuds/eccentrick
Summary: When Lance gets hurt protecting Pidge, Lance's condition is uncertain and Pidge is left to struggle with her feelings.





	pigments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Val_Creative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/gifts).



> My Langstron gift to Val_Creative (nooowestayandgetcaught on tumblr). I hope you like it because I really enjoyed writing it! My Plance cherry has officially been popped! 
> 
> Unbetaed, slightly edited by me.

Lance cuts her hair before the battle, the soft snipping sounds echoing around the otherwise silent room. Pidge bites her lip, fingers itching to be typing, to be doing something to distract her.

“About what you said-”

“Let’s forget about that!” Lance says, interrupting, laugh cracking mid-swell. He once again focuses on his duty, finally cutting the dead ends he’s been moaning and groaning about in quick, straight lines. Pidge wants to say she’s surprised by how steady his hand is, but he is the team sharpshooter. 

“It’s not that I don’t fee-”

“All done! You’re looking great, I mean, not hot or anything but- uhm, better than before. At least not like a hobo, haha!” 

Pidge curls her hands into fists, burrowing them in between her thighs for warmth. “Lance. . .”

“Nope, no! We’re totally not gonna talk about my petty feelings right now, not before we kick some Galran asses! And now that you can actually see, you should be right as rain.”

Pidge never does get to speak uninterrupted. She’ll regret it for the rest of her life.

\--

Lance pants, gun heavy in his shaking arms. Sweat settles on his eyelids and temples, and his breath fogs the helmet, making every exhale look like frost. He runs as fast as he can, Pidge quick on his heels. They need this information, he reminds himself when his legs threaten to give out and he sees the head count they’re facing. They need this information, no matter what. 

Pidge is the one extracting it, Allura is the distraction, Keith and Hunk keep the entire thing in one piece, the halls fracturing as it self destructs, and Lance has Pidge’s back during the vulnerable seconds she has to have her back open. 

As the floor parts a few hundred feet behind them, Lance focuses not on the impending collapse and studies Pidge. She’s in her element, brows drawn low and mouth firm; if anyone saw the expression out of context, they’d surely think she must be royally pissed. It amazes him that someone can be so drawn into their work that they forget everything around them, which is why Lance is tagging along in the first place. She’s leaving herself open for attack, and he has to get between her and injury. 

When Allura gave him this assignment, he thought for sure that everyone knew. That everyone knew that he finally figured out his obscure affection for the Green paladin to only be immediately shot down. That, no matter how much Pidge doesn’t feel for him, he’d get in the way of fire for her. But everyone acted oblivious, even Pidge herself, so he tried to calm the paranoia that nestles into his brain. 

Here, in this moment, it’s easy to forget. The constant screech of metal on metal falling apart, gunfire, explosions and grunts of pain making it hard to concentrate on anything but surviving; it is the symphony of war, and the increasing rubble and chaos only makes his head ache and heart pound. 

That might be why he’s too distracted to hear it, the lazer brushing against his cheek, narrowly missing Pidge. She jumps, and twists to glare at him. “What part of watch my back do you not get?!” 

“Sorry, sorry!” 

He shakes himself of any thought, only the tempo of battle, the fluid way in which his muscles bunch and flex and move with only memory to guide him. The next onslaught he’s on guard, actually doing his job this time.

The new wave overwhelms him, the bots now mixed in with real live Galran’s. One such Galran looks like a General from the insignia on his armor, and man, he’s a gnarly one. Instead of charging, the General lifts a fist, and the bots and the few organic soldiers stop and flee, but one. The Galran smirks, and turns on his heel, escaping down the hall. 

“Uh. . .Pidge, you gonna be done soon?”

Sweat is visible on her forehead, dyed purple from the offensively bright light of the monitor, her bangs sticking to her temples. “Not. Now, Lance,” she replies through clenched teeth. 

He focuses on the bot, shooting it almost point blank, the bullets bouncing right off of it. His breathing picks up then, because if his gun is useless, then *he’s* pretty much useless right now, right?! Shifting his bayard into a broadsword, he lunges, and once again, it’s easily deflected, the sharp edges of the sword scraping off of it, sparks literally flying.

Pidge, still busy, doesn’t notice a thing, her mind completely focussed on her goal. Lance decides that he should be as well, and gets into a fighting stance, legs planted firmly on the ground. It’s only when the bot’s eyes start blinking an eerie red that he knows. He’s seen this before. 

With little time, he grabs Pidge from behind, causing her to try to jerk away. He tightens his grip, body shielding her’s; the bomb goes off with a deafening _boom_ , rattling his very bones, the force flinging him, and therefore Pidge, sideways, Lance landing on Pidge’s small frame. Once the dust settles and the floor quits it’s scary shaking, Lance sighs with relief. 

Pidge has the gall to look irritated, or maybe that’s just the shock. The expression goes lax when her gaze focuses on his chest. 

“Lance. . . _Lance_.”

He giggles, his chest feeling engulfed in heat, probably from the close proximity to Pidge. She attempts to shake him, but he has enough strength in him to keep her pinned underneath him where she’s safe. 

“Lance, where are you? Talk to me.”

His vision blurs, and he blinks. “I’m right here in your arms.”

Pidge curses through clenched teeth, eyes looking suspiciously wet. Huh, must be the dust swirling around, or even the sticky red wetness that drops on her cheek. Wait.

“Don’t look,” Pidge begs. “Don’t look, and don’t move, okay?”

He looks, and he immediately regrets it. He appears to be impaled, a hunk of metal peeking out right from center. He draws in a shaky breath and whimpers, the air rattling in his lungs wetly. It gets harder and harder to breath. His arms refuse to hold him up any longer, so he rests on Pidge, who is usually too boney to be a comfortable cuddle buddy. Not now -- now she feels like the most comfortable place, his bloody face tucking into the junction of her neck, smearing red traces of him behind. 

Lance almost drowned once, when he was only five and small for his age. He’d almost been caught in a riptide, pulled under. He’d tried so hard to breathe, gulping down burning water into dry lungs. It feels sort of like that now, only so so so much worse, his soggy lungs feeling like useless sponges. 

He catches the tail end of the pain, his sight fading quickly. Shuddering, he asks, “D-did you ge-get it?”

“Yes, idiot, I got it.”

His hearing goes last, and he swears he hears Pidge sobbing into the comms. It might just be hopeful thinking. 

\--

Despite popular belief, Pidge isn’t cold. She isn’t crass, nor uncaring. She just tucks the excess feelings into the corners of her heart until she can deal with them in the safe confines of her room, the gentle castle light illuminating tears tracks wetting her cheeks. But, now they don’t even have the castle, so she has nowhere to hide but inside her lion. It only makes it worse, Green’s feelings echoing hollowly in her mind, making the pain twofold. She can’t stay there, hunched over her chair.

They no longer have the Castleship, meaning they no longer have healing pods. The only way Pidge knows Lance is still clinging to life is the thread of connection that is shared between Green and Red. She exits, severing the mirrored emotions, and slumps beside a dying fire. The planet they landed on in a rush is empty and barren, lacking the right amount of oxygen, but Pidge lets her lungs struggle, knowing Lance is far worse off. 

She glances at the cordoned off makeshift tent, shielding Lance, Coran and Allura from view. Discarded rags spill out of the opening, stained red. They don’t have a healing pod, and Allura can only seem to revive the already dead, and they can’t risk that, so they have to do everything the old-fashioned way. The dangerous way. 

Funny how space has warped Pidge’s sense of death, the healing pods cushioning their fall so many times that it’s all too easy to take the plunge. Now the rug has been pulled out from under them at Lance’s expense. 

Keith stokes the fire. The shadows make his face look hollow and sunken in, but maybe that’s just the grief; he can play all he wants, but Pidge notices the stubborn tears lining his eyelids, and as someone known for burying everything behind irritation herself, she knows he fears the worst. They all do. Hunk is distracting himself by showing Romelle how their Lions work, the latter looking confused and distant. And Pidge and Keith try to sear their corneas by the way they stare at the flames. 

There is no jovial jokes, no lighthearted jabs; no one is there to make Keith confused, no one to annoy Pidge enough that she actually does her work on time for once. Their dynamic is shattered. 

Allura may be the heart of Voltron, but Lance is the soul. A heart and mind is nothing without the warmth of a soul. 

\--

When Lance confessed to Pidge, she thought it was a joke. Lance’s face was beet red, his words rushing and falling over each other, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Someone must have put him up to this, she had thought. Maybe Hunk, that meddling snitch. 

When Pidge didn’t say anything back it’s like he blanked out, his face falling slowly and then all at once. He went even redder and fled, leaving Pidge and her traitor heart to wallow it what could be. She knew she wasn’t the kind of girl he went for, pretty and nice smelling and giggly. Pidge snorted when she laughed, big bellowing hiccups, and she sure as hell wasn’t a looker. She forgot to shower more often than not! She totally smelled! Hunk just knew her feelings and meddled, that meddling meddler! 

She hadn’t expected him to act so crushed, nor for him to begin avoiding her. She knew the looks they got from Allura and also knew the moment it interfered with Voltron, she’d step in. She hadn’t known the lengths in which he would one day go to protect her. If she had, she would’ve at least allowed herself a kiss. 

Now, she tries desperately to put it out of her mind. She emotionally cuts it out, slams a barrier down between her and Lance in her mind, and proceeds to act like he’s already lost to them. And if he’s already lost, gone, than she can skip the grieving process entirely and wait to break once everyone pulls themselves together. Just like she prefers to be the last one awake, she’d also rather be the last one to cry, in the shelter of her own home, nestled under the blanket of her childhood. 

So, she hums forcefully as she fries some space eggs, fanning the fire to make them sizzle. She gets an odd look from Hunk, and a knowing one from Matt, but goes about her business. She’s just trying to make breakfast here! Nothing to see! She holds her breath when Coran exits the tent in the corner of her eye, not daring to look directly at him for fear of his facial expression. They’ve begun to be grimmer and grimmer, like Lance’s ghost is getting closer and closer to the surface. 

Hunk takes Shiro and Allura breakfast, leaving green in the face. He’s known for his weak stomach, she tells herself, but knows she won’t be able to convince her brain unless she sees it for herself. She’s never had much of an imagination when it comes to these things. But does she really want that to be her last memory of Lance? Would it be any better or worse than the sight of metal impaling him, the same piece that could’ve hit her instead if only Lance didn’t insist on heroics? 

She sneaks after the fire dies down and the planet they’ve set up shop darkens, the skies full of unfamiliar stars and two moons that look like reflections of the other. Shiro and Allura are still inside, Allura slumped backwards, head tucked to her chest like she tried valiantly to stay awake, Shiro on the ground, dead to the world. 

In between them is. . .a version of Lance. The sick smell of infection -- sweet and sour at the same time -- envelops the confines of the tent, is all that you can breath in. Pidge breathes shallowly, sweat prickling at her skin. He looks so small, skin an ill yellow tinged in white. In some lapse of judgement, someone folded his arms across his torso, like they were preparing him for a funeral. His funeral. 

Suddenly Pidge feels too small, despite taking up the entirety of the entrance of the tent. Her lungs feel too small in her chest, like heavy stones that refuse to let even a gasp of air through their thresholds. Heart racing, she says with the last of her breath, “You martyring _idiot_.” 

She turns away. She runs away. She slides next to Matt, her fingers trembling too much to allow her to unzip her sleeping bag, so she just lays atop it, gasping for air, feeling like she’s going to die. 

Pidge thought the false realization that Matt was dead hurt her to the core; at least it wasn’t _her_ fault. She had others to blame. The Galra, the universe, bad luck, the Garrison. Now she and the others only have her to thank when Lance slips away to a place she can’t follow just like everyone else. 

\--

Lance died. At least once. He’s not exactly sure how he knows, besides being blanketed by the brightest and softed blackness, similar to sleep but peaceful, no chance of bad dreams or sleepless nights. He remembers the disappointment he feels when he is pushed out of it, the brightness of life too blinding to be beautiful any longer. Now, the never ending grayness of his eyelids is just a nuisance. 

So, he knows he died, and Allura must have brought him back. But, the feeling in his lungs still burn, he can still taste blood on his tongue, and everything hurts. He is forever tense, snippets of talking and crying and retching (Hunk, for sure) the only sense that doesn't hurt. So, when he finally awakens, his eyelids lifting their lifetime ban, he first sees Allura. 

Any other time, that would’ve been a plus, right? Especially with how upset she looks, her eyelids red, her eyes tired and face tense. Like she was really worried about him. But he finds himself disappointed. He feels as though someone else should be there, someone less overbearing and more annoyed. 

Damn, he has to be a masochist. 

“-don’t move.” 

“I reckon he-”

“Lance, buddy! LanCE! LAN-” 

“Moron.”

He sighs as the voices of his comrades surround him, all but one. He blinks away the tears from the onslaught of light and motion, and sees every color but green. A pigment of their color wheel missing. 

His chest tightens and he feels as though he's falling. 

“He’s starting to hyperventilate. We need to knock him out, Princess.” 

“Coran! We will do no such thing! We don't have the right sort of equipment to do it correctly and safely.” 

A sound of frustration above him. “Yes, princess, I understand but he's not lucid enough to calm down on his own--”

“--idge,” He gasps between constrictive breaths. “Pid- Pidge, is she okay?!” 

He opens his eyes he doesn't even remember closing. Keith is next to him, burn completely healed. How long has he been out?! 

“She's fine, Lance,” he says. “You made sure of that.” 

His lungs loosen just enough for him to take a breath. “Good. . .that's good.” Why isn't she here, then? 

He attempts to sit up, but an ache soul deep makes every muscle tense in pain. With clenched teeth, he settles back down as everyone looks about ready to pounce on him. Coran is frantically shuffling through bottles and books, muttering to himself. Everyone else is frozen. 

Quickly, he notes his surroundings. He doesn't remember this tent being here, but he supposes that since he was hurt they had to think of something to fully protect him from the atmosphere and any alien bacteria. It feels humid inside, the cluster of bodies heating up the small tent. 

Once he takes in the sights (or the lack thereof) he notices the stench. Sweet, but not the good kind. Rotten sweet. Lance tries to sniff subtly. 

“Is that,” he croaks, coughs again, “Is that smell me?”

Hunk turns a bit green at the mention. “Uhm yeah. Don't freak out, but seems you might have a teensy little infection. That we might not have the stuff to treat. But everything else is looking great! Totally surprised too, since I figured Allura is a legit necromancer.” 

Keith is rolling his eyes as he hands Lance something to drink. The alien version of a bendy straw is sorta dizzying. He takes a sip, his dry mouth rejoicing. 

“Pretty sure I died there again, actually.” 

“Wait, WHAT?! YOU DIED BEFORE?!” 

Lance clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh, yeah. Guess me and Shiro should get a club going. ‘Was Resurrected By Princess Allura Club.’ Though I guess Shiro was more downloaded than anything. . .”

“How is everyone so chill about this?!” Hunk asks when Allura starts to busy herself, Keith takes a drink from the bendy straw himself and Coran is counting on his fingers. When no one answers he deflates, shaking his head. 

Clearing his throat, he continues addressing Lance. “Anyway! We got someone looking for the plant we need, so don't uh, worry!” 

“You don't sound so confident, my Hunk. Shiro will be fine.” 

“About that…”

\--

“FUCK,” Pidge shouts as her comms go out. She's pressed against the ground, gravity making her feel like she weighs a thousand pounds, and her comms won't work! How will she call for backup?! Her brother is gonna freak if he tries to contact her while she's away and finds her unable to communicate!

She stills her jittery hands and takes a deep breath, Shiro’s mantra running through her head. Pidge is doing this for good reason. She's doing this for someone she cares about, and that has to be enough to pull her through. 

Grunting, Pidge pulls herself up, her knees screaming in protest; the atmosphere isn't enough to crush her, but it's also harsh enough to make her job that much harder. Green is unsettled in the back of her head, their bond thrumming nervously. Gritting her teeth, she pushes forward. She's so close. 

The plant that she needs to save Lance is nondescript. It looks like any average fern, from what Coran told her. They don't have the Castle of Lions to give her a visual, and she really dislikes being outside, but her heart pounds and skin prickles with panic when she thinks of refusing to do it or failing. In no undefined terms, Lance will die a slow, painful death if she doesn't succeed. 

It's so quiet on her own. She's used to Lance’s chatter in her ear, usually bantering with Keith or flirting with Allura. She usually scolds or makes fun of him at those times, and now she feels guilty that she didn't do more for him. She may not have the strength to say yes to his confession, but she also doesn't want him to die or go away somewhere she can't tease him. 

Pidge clutches her chest, the ache resonating within. She comes to the clearing Coran described, mostly unchanged over the 10,000 years he was asleep. The atmosphere must make it hard for large lifeforms to thrive, leaving gross bugs and dirt and multicolored ferns to take the space. 

Examining the plants, she counts the number of barbs that stick out, strong enough to pierce flesh. She makes an aha sound when she finds it, carefully plucking the fern that also might kill her because Coran was pretty shifty when describing the thorn-like extensions. She tugs, pulls, whacks, but the plant is still firmly in the ground, the stem unharmed. Pidge tries to tear her hair out, only to find that she can't raise her arm over her shoulders, let alone her hand. 

She sits back, sweat leaving uncomfortable trails down her face and making her armor stick to the middle of her back. Tears line her eyelids, momentarily blurring her sight. She failed. She failed and for the life of her she can't think of what to do. No amount of programming can help her here, and Green would destroy the plant trying to extract it. 

Pidge grits her teeth in anger and flicks the stem with a rhythmic wack wack wack. It won't do anything, but the sound makes her muscles relax minutely, allowing her to think. She still comes up with nothing, but at least the tears threatening to spill no longer fog her helmet and she no longer tries to pull out her hair underneath that helmet. 

Suddenly, there is a tremble that shakes the earth. Alarm rumbles in the back of her mind in the form of Green, alerting her that it must be something bad. Before she can make it fully standing, the ground seems to pulse, vein-like intrusions lifting, dark brown dirt spurting into the air like brown blood. The shaking stops, and she feels a thunk on her foot. 

Across the ground is the fern, uprooted.

“Huh,” is all she can say. 

\--

Pidge has been gone for three days, according to Hunk. Lance has to pry the information out of him, the big fluffy worrier that he is. Knowing this isn't going to do him any more harm; fever will still shake his body, a sickly stench will still permeate his stifling tent, and he will still be slowly burning from the inside. What's a little worry? No biggie. 

Hunk stays by his side, creating the illusion of healing by dabbing his sweat slick forehead with a chilled cloth like a maiden in a movie. He's sure pretty enough to be one, Lance jokes, but the jest falls on deaf ears. 

Even if she makes it, Lance feels himself slipping. 

Facing death once gives you a taste of it, but seeing it twice? Looking into the face of your own mortality? That gives you a sixth sense of just knowing, like muscle memory drilled into your brain. It's a memory and sensation that will never truly leave him. 

But, as long as Pidge gets back safely, it'll be okay. The zen he feels should be odd, but right now, he welcomes it, is grateful for the clarity it gives him. He's dying, and he accepts it. Instead of staring it in the eyes, he closes his, basking in its bleakness, knowing that he will never be afraid of it again. 

As his eyes droop, and after assuring Hunk that he isn't dying (yet), just sleeping, he allows himself to think of home. Of Cuba, the brightness of the sea and the smell of garlic knots fresh out of the oven and just calling him to burn his fingers on. Of his siblings and niblings laughter dancing around him, Veronica screaming behind clenched teeth, her well worn coolness melting down due to grubby hands. 

He wonders how she's doing, more than any other sibling. She's smart, and disciplined, but even she will not be happy when finding out what the Garrison must be hiding. And she will. Sooner or later, she will find what she's looking for -- him, he knows that she doesn't believe he threw away his future for anything less than saving the universe -- and he doesn't trust the Garrison enough not to silence her. And when she does figure it out, he knows she will be waiting for him to come back. 

Luis and Laura can readily move on. Not a slight towards them, not at all, but he knows they will give up looking. They're strong like that, knowing when to truly give up. He won't blame them or curse them their happiness. 

He tries not to think of his mother or father, and especially not his grandparents, who were sickly and fragile when he left for the Garrison. 

No, he thinks of his fellow Paladins. Allura is perfect in Blue, and he truly wishes that she was still the object of affection for he knew she was never going to he a reality. Instead, he has feelings for Pidge, who while still way out of his league, is not a warrior alien Princess. 

He doesn't have to try hard to think of Hunk, who is still holding his hand as he drifts in and out of consciousness. He's truly an amazing friend, staying with Lance despite his weak stomach. He almost wishes that his buddy didn't have to see Lance like this, but knows that the fingers curled around his is the anchor holding him in this realm. 

Shiro and Keith, now, are like distant stars. Now that Shiro is truly back, everything will slot together when Lance finally lets go. Allura can keep her place as Princess and Blue Paladin, and Keith can have Red back. Shiro can have his rightful place at the helm of Black, and the only minus the team will have is no sharpshooter and that no one to tell corny jokes that actually make sense as opposed to corny jokes that no one but Coran can understand, bless his soul. 

Lance isn't feeling sorry for himself, not truly. He knows that he is the weakest link. The team could readily replace him with a better sharpshooter, that much is true. And, in this cloudy place of half wakefulness, the pain isn't as severe as usual, just a light blow.

Hunk must notice a change, because Lance feels a few light slaps and hears “Lance? Lance?!” but he just can't bring himself to open his eyes. The heat increases, now on the edge of unbearable, his head ready to pop under the pressure. Multiple pairs of hands shuffle along his body, and he has no energy to make a joke about wandering hands.

Suddenly, his muscles tighten, so tightly he can't inhale a single breath. He bites his tongue harshly, blood filling his mouth. After this, he doesn't remember anything.

\--

Pidge almost crash lands Green, jumping out of her mouth before she even lands. She rolls on landing, rising on her feet immediately and running as soon as she hits the ground. The camp is entirely empty, the fire unintended, and as weak as it is due to lack of oxygen, this alone is extremely alarming. 

She makes a beeline to Lance’s tent, a stench so cloying surrounding it she almost gags. Once she pushes aside the flap of the entrance, Pidge sees a sight she will never forget. 

The entire crew is here, in this cramped little tent, even Matt. In the middle of their close huddle is Lance, on his side, and he's _seizing_ , his body shaking with abandon that can only be loss of control. Many pairs of eyes snap up at her, all wet and red and hopeless. 

Coran jumps into action first. “Come on, Number 5, please tell me you got it?!”

Air shutters out of her lungs. “I do, I-I got it right here.” 

Eyes snatch down to her chest where she's cradling the prickly fern against her armor where it cannot penetrate. Coran ushers her in, making room next to Lance for her to fit into. 

“What do I do?!” she asks. She can barely speak between heavy breaths, panic threatening to paralyze her tongue. 

“We don't have time to do anything now! Not anything I know!” Coran cries. “But we have to try something. We need to stop this seizure, and we need to cool him down, and the only way to do that is to stop this infection! Nothing else works!” 

Her brain stalls, focus locked onto the red, angry wound near his chest. She glances at the thorns, back to the wound, and does the first thing she thinks of. She turns him over on his back despite many protests and shoves the fern into his wound, the prickles piercing the skin. 

At first, nothing happens. Pidge is out of her body, looking at her failure, at her worthlessness and the echo of grief it causes. Her chest wants to cave in, the heart in her chest beating so quickly she feels frozen despite the adrenaline it pushes into her body with every pump. 

Then a gasp, one that isn't from her, sounds out. A ripple shakes Lance’s body one last time before he relaxes against the mat, like a demon within his body was finally exorcised. 

No one speaks for a long time, until Hunk breaks the silence. “Did it work or is he. . .” His voice is heavy with tears. 

Coran checks Lance’s pulse. “It's stronger than it has been, but still weaker than I like. But. . .I don’t smell the infection as thickly as before.” 

Keith slumps against Hunk, Shiro wipes his face with his hand and Allura’s eyes well with tears of relief. Pidge, well, Pidge can't bring herself to be relieved when she knows someone doesn't come back from an infection like that without injury or disability. 

The pressure on her chest doesn't lift and she turns on her heels and escapes the cooling sickness that fills the air. 

\-- 

There is no place to hide on the barren planet, so Matt finds her quickly. His gentle hand on her shoulder jolts her out of her unhappy musings, and it could have been a welcome distraction if she didn't know that he had a lecture in mind. 

“Pidge,” he starts. 

“No. I know what you're going to say. It _is_ all my fault, _this is all my fault_! Maybe if I told him the truth when he confessed he wouldn't have seen the need to sacrifice himself for me, and if only I had been smarter and quicker and better I'd have gotten here sooner and he would be in better shape!” She stands, then, fists clenched at her sides. “You saw that seizure! There is no way he's coming back from that without something going wrong!”

Matt is quiet before he answers. “You just answered my questions. But, Katie, you can't nitpick your every action or you'll always been in the cycle of self-hatred. Do you think I didn't blame myself for what happened to Shiro, because I was weak?” 

“But it wasn't your fault!”

Her brother’s look is a cross between exasperated and fond. “Exactly. So, with that logic, this isn't your fault either. Do you think if Lance jumped in front of a bullet -- er, metal projectile? -- after you rejected him, that he wouldn't have done the same if you said yes?” 

“But,” she begins, “But, he could've died. . . Might still die, not knowing how I really feel. It's scary, thinking about it, that he'd never know, and die thinking I barely think of him as a friend.” 

This time, Matt’s expression is pure exasperation. “Then go tell him! What happened to my genius little brat sister?!” 

She only brings herself to stand after some animated shooing from Matt, and darts back Lance’s tent on wobbly knees. 

\--

Lance wakes in intervals. His consciousness is like a wave, swelling only to retreat as soon as it crests. His eyelids are the beach, his eyelashes the mist of the ocean, and wakefulness the sea threatening to tear his very pleasant dream down like a damp sand castle. He's making some awesome metaphors, so really, that's the first inkling that something must not be right. The next is that when he wakes, Pidge is there at his side, grasping his hand. 

“Am I in heaven or hell?” he asks, voice rough from disuse and sickness. 

Instead of a playful smack, Pidge laughs tearfully. “Neither, idiot.” 

“Forgive an idiot for asking.” 

“I-I, er, I want to say something. Before you're completely lucid and I can readily deny it if needed.” 

“Am I dying, doc?” That one actually gets him a flick this time. 

“Shut up and lemme talk, okay. It's about your confession-”

This feels too much like a dream. “No, nope, let's not do that. You don't have to act like you like me just because I almost died.”

Pidge visibly grits her teeth. “No, that's not what this is, idiot. I really like you, for some reason. I, I just let my insecurities get in the way, and I realized that you could've died without ever knowing. I know I'm not very girly, even once my gender was revealed, and I'm not polite or a Princess or a hot guy like Keith or Shiro. I'm just a-”

“Wonderful, smart, caring, loyal, fierce person. Should I go on?” 

Pidge turns a cute shade of red and Lance wants to make her do that a million times a day. 

“I don't see what you see,” she grumbles. 

He smiles, feeling his eyes grow heavy. “You will. I'll help.” 

Grasping his hand tightly, she says, “You too. We're both idiots, aren't we?”

**Author's Note:**

> I almost wanna write a sequel to address any injury and long lasting effects of the illness! Again, I hope Val_Creative enjoys this!!
> 
> You can find me on my tumblr: lo-tor; lo-tor-writes


End file.
